How He Lives
by TardisDragon211B
Summary: Did the life of Sherlock Holmes end? This can't be. Yet how could he pull of a trick like that? Only the great, mysterious, genius Sherlock could do such a thing, and this was how he did it. No slash.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter: 1 (I don't own Sherlock)

"One more thing," the man in the blue plaid shirt turned around to face the black stone once more. It was clear that he was uncomfortable. He didn't seem to be sure who, or what he was talking to. So he stood there in the middle of the cemetery, starring at the ominous headstone. His eyes were closed, as if they were being weighed down by the body below his feet.

"One more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me," he rushed his words as though the stone was retreating, turning its back on him, much like his friend had done. Perhaps his wish was to spill the words out, to leave behind the stone and the troubling memories, and move on with his life.

"Don't," he said slowly and heavily, his eyebrows rose and his sad eyes looked at the golden letters of the name.

"Be." The eyebrows rose in accordance with his slow speech.

"Dead," he choked out the last word and quickly quivered backwards, almost as if the body would rise up from the ground.

His breath quivered and he looked down at the ground, towards his feet. Ashamed that he was asking so much of a dead man: a dead friend.

"Just stop it," he shook his head and pleaded with the stone. John Watson pleaded and begged the stone to give him his friend back, but the friend was dead. Sherlock Holmes was no more.

As John walked away from the stench of death, my phone proceeded to ring. I looked at the name sprawled across the scene then back at the distant figure of my former friend: my former life. I touched the button and her small voice came out of the dark plastic.

"Hel-," her voice was cut short.

"I am telling him," I told her, and before the protest began I turned the phone off.

"John Watson, get ready to meet Joseph Bailey," I whispered under my breath.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter: 2

**Sorry if this isn't that great of a story people it's my first fanfic ever, but it's fun to write this so here goes nothing.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any other BBC shows.**

I reached the street of the flat, the one I had spent so much time in. It suddenly occurs to me that I had wasted my life on such meaningless of things, drugs a primary one. The wall riddled with metal casings another. It's bad when my rational thinking takes over and the things that had once consumed my time have become the scourge of my existence. I shook the thought out of my head. I looked up at the street sign; it loomed over me like the impending recompressions that my actions held. I looked down Baker Street and wondered how he would react when he found out. There was one thought that was engraved in my mind.

"I hope he isn't cross."

"John, is that you," the elderly woman asked as the door creaked shut.

There was no response.

"John," Mrs. Hudson asked again. "John is that you?"

Silence.

"Clam down, it was just your imagination." The elderly woman looked down at the pie crust she had just rolled. The fresh smell of cut vegetables and cooking meat filled the small kitchen. He had loved her cooking, even if he didn't always express it. Natural light streamed in through the rectangular window and shone on her grieve- ridden face. Her wrinkled hand rose to wipe the water forming ripples in the old woman's eyes when she heard another creek. "Who's there?!"

She looked around but saw no one. Then there was another creek.

"John if that's you this isn't funny! This isn't funny at all!" The previous tears began to weld up as she yelled into the air. There was a moment of silence until a small _scuff!_ sound came from the direction of the of the stairs. She quickly grabbed the knife lying on the counter, and headed towards the foot of the staircase. "I swear if this is you John Watson I will skin your hide. Scaring an old woman lik-."

A gloved hand covered the woman's mouth from behind. Another grabbed the hand which held the knife. The stranger squeezed her wrist until she had lost all feeling in her fingers. The knife clattered to the floor, disappearing into the dim hallway. The man relaxed his grip on her wrist, but didn't let her go. His hand was covering her mouth and her nose; she was finding it difficult to breath.

She muffled a scream through the fingers, but it didn't even break the sound barrier. He took his hand off her wrist and through his arm around her mid-torso. He lifted her feet off the ground started moving her into the kitchen. She was kicking her legs and pounding her frail arms at the muscular man, at least he felt muscular through all of the leather he was wearing. She knew it was pointless to struggle, but she'd be bloody base if she was going to give in without a fight.

He dragged her to the middle of the tiled floor. She stomped as hard as she could on his foot, but the assailant didn't even flinch. She bit down on his black glove but the hand didn't budge. All she could do was pound on the arm wrapped around her stomach.

Suddenly he turned her around so he was facing her. His mouth and nose were covered by a purple bandana. Long, shaggy brown hair framed his rectangular face. Three deep red scars lined his upper brow. Shallower, healed scars were scattered across the tattered face. His eyes weren't that of a killer's, but the baby- blue eyes of a young man. If one were to ignore the abundance of scars, he would like any other stranger on the street. Yet here he was holding an elderly woman captive and to the point of suffocation. No, this man was a killer, nothing more than the vile scum of the earth.

He was holding the woman close to his body; if one were to walk by they'd assume he was giving her a hug. That is if such a person could over look the man's hand on the woman's mouth. She stared him in the eyes, knowing that if she were to die, she'd want him to be haunted by the look on her face. He looked back into her eyes. She saw a hint of doubt flash in his pupils, but he shook his head slightly and the spark was gone. Now that she was facing him she could reach her desirable target.

She head butted him as hard as she could then gave him a hard knee in the groin. He let go and reached down to protect his throbbing particulars. She almost let out a laugh.

"And Sherlock had once said I was one of the gentlest of women," she thought, but she did not smirk. She started to walk as fast she could to John and Sher-…John's room, but the black hand once again grabbed her wrist. She gasped and bumped into a plate on the table, knocking it to the ground with a _clunk._

The man slowly regained his posture, without letting go of the struggling woman. He stood taller and buffed out his chest more. It made him look all the more menacing. He took hold of her other wrist with his other hand so she was once again facing him, but this time there was no doubt in his face: only rage.

"L-let mm-me go," she tried to sound fierce but failed miserably. His only response was to tighten his grip on her wrists.

"L-let me go!" She commanded louder. The man loomed over her, his eyes burning into her very soul. She raised her foot and crashed down on the bulky boot like she had before. He only laughed, which caused him to loosen his grip slightly on one of the wrinkled wrists. She quickly drew her hand back and slapped the man across the face as hard as she could. His laughter stopped as he took his free hand to rub the redden handprint that was now on his left cheek. She tried desperately to wretch the other hand off of her one wrist, by grabbing at the arm with her free hand. But his arm did not budge. After the initial shock to the powerful slap, the man grabbed the freed wrist once more.

He moved his left hand so it was positioned around the woman's thin neck. She clawed at the large hand, but it was useless. He raised his right fist high above his head. She kept her eyes wide open, her gaze never leaving the gloved fist dangling in the air.

"Why you little bi-," he shouted as the hand came down, but neither the phrase nor the man's blow finished their courses. The man tumbled to the floor along with Mrs. Hudson who was still caught in his grasp.

"Mrs. Hudson," a man's voice shouted as the old woman fell to the ground along with the intruder. She was trying to release the unconscious man's grasp on her throat with little success. Two, male hands reached down and freed her from her prison. She gasped as air was able to get in her lungs without any sort of pressure. She looked up to face her savior.

"Are you alright," John Watson asked as he helped the woman to her feet. She looked him in the eye and nodded. He gave her a half- smile before he turned to the man who had assaulted his friend. A large gash was present on the back of his skull, and a small amount of blood was staining his mocha hair red.

"What did you do to him, John," Mrs. Hudson asked the young doctor. John quickly examined this friend for any visible head injures or broken bones. Once he was satisfied that the woman had nothing more than a small cut the knife had made when it fell to the ground on her right hand, he walked over to the unconscious man.

"I hit him," John replied as he moved to get a better look of the man. John crouched down next to him and saw a lock of the man's hair move to and thro: still breathing. John nodded his head; glad he hadn't fatally wounded the man, one less life he needed on his conscious.

"With what," Mrs. Hudson asked with a raised eyebrow. John looked up at her then to the ground. She followed his gaze to the shattered pieces of glass that carpeted the tile.

"Oh not my good china, John!"

"Wait just a minute if you'd had that door locked then he wouldn't have been able to come in!"

Mrs. Hudson was about to retort and tell Mr. Watson that she had in fact locked the door, that the man must have picked the lock, and he owed her for her favorite china dish when a knock came from the opened front door.

The two shared a look at each other, the man, the door and then each other once more. John walked over to the refrigerator and grabbed the broom leaning against it. He shot Mrs. Hudson a signal to be very quite as he crept towards the small hallway that led to the front door. When he finally caught sight of the doorway he found who had knocked. It was a tall man who had dark brown curls and wore a dark blue overcoat.

John slowly moved out of the hall until he was visible to the man. His grasp on the broom never faltering. The man's face turned into a friendly smile as he turned to face John.

"Why hello there! My name is Joseph Bailey it's nice to mee- Why are you holding a broomstick like it's a bat?!"


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3:

**Hey Sherlock fans! So the first chapter was basically a prologue, in case anyone was wondering… that is if anyone is reading this. Well if you're that one person on the internet that accidentally clicked on this story thinking it was something else please let me know what you think. That is if you want to…Well here goes nothing. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or BBC, if I did I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be **

**telling you the plotline for the next season now would I?**

I looked down Baker Street and wondered how he would react when he found out. There was one thought that was engraved in my mind.

"I hope he isn't cross."

I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. I was at some level nervous which was abnormal for me. But I guess it wasn't that strange, given the circumstances. It isn't everyday one had to deliver news like this.

It was mid-morning. The sun light reverberated off the glass windows of different buildings and caused the cream sidewalk to glisten. The light also shimmered of the glossy black taxies and other vehicles that filled the street. Little bits of paper speckled the dark pavement loitered with hot, rubber tires. A few people were out and about, mostly the old or small children. The adults were all off at their morning work and errands. I narrowly missed being run over by a group of kids as I strolled on the path.

I caught a glimpse of my self in the mirror. My blue coat looked darker than normal in such a display of light. I hoped he doesn't remember my looks.

I continued along, my eyes searching for the correct door and address. It had been awhile since I had last been there. So when I finally found where the door should be I was might with an open doorway where the stairs could be seen from outside.

"Must be really hot in there," I mentally shrugged the small detail off. I had more important things that needed my focus. Yet I hesitated before walking to the open doorway. I was worried he'd be angry not just with me but everyone else who was involved, but I had to do it. For his sake.

My hand reached forward to knock on the door even though it was open. I didn't want to just go and barge right into the place. That wouldn't help the situation in the slightest. It was best to gently ease the man into the truth. So I decided to give him some warning before I trampled on his believes. I made a sharp knock on the wood that would catch anyone's notice attention.

Standing just outside the doorway, I was waiting for him to answer the door when a sliver of light shone just at the right angle to beam directly into my eyes. The light twinkled before I was able to step out of the beam line. Rubbing my eyes I looked down to find the source of the visual attack. I looked around the small room that led into the stairs and other rooms, but could not find the source of the twinkle.

"Weird," I thought to myself.

I heard a sharp pin from behind me. Instinctively I turned around, afraid of what I might see. I let out a sigh of relief when a man in a blue suit bent down to pick up the fallen keys, never ceasing his conversation with the cell phone. Too many times had I heard sharp pins. I automatically assume it is the sound of a trigger. The corners of my lips began to turn towards the sky when I realized just how paranoid I have become.

"Of all the lines of work I had to pick crime, didn't I," I asked the sun. I smiled until I heard the soft shuffle of stealthy, at least an attempt at stealthy, footsteps coming from one of the other doorways. The grin fell.

I turned around to see who had come to answer the door. I saw it was him, the man I came to see. I mustered up a welcoming grin as I faced him.

He was standing just out of the shadowed corner of the room, but was completely visible. He was standing near the foot of the stairs, and I stepped a foot into the building. There was an arch leading into the open space and a series of coat hooks to my left. The short, blonde man was in a defensive yet threatening stance, like a mother dog protecting her young. His eyes hard but not cold. No his brown eyes were protective of what, or who?

My gaze shifted to a small scuff behind the man, and landed on a blondish- gray haired woman peeked around the intersection of two walls. She quickly returned to her hiding place, obviously had seen my eyes upon her. The man by the staircase did not see the old woman; in fact his gaze never strayed from my person. So that was who he was protecting, but why? How was I threat? I mean had they not let the door wide open? Strange, very strange indeed. I decided we were to make any headway I would have to begin the conversing.

"Why hello there! My name is Joseph Bailey it's nice to mee-,"I began to greet the man, but stopped when I finally realized what was waving around in his right hand. My next words out before I could stop to think. "Why are you holding a broomstick like it's a bat?!"

Then it hit me.

He remembered me.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter: 4

**Has anyone ever wondered why bad guys wear dark, depressing clothes? Is there some weird bad guy club where in order to keep your membership you must follow the depressing dress code? And why leather? If anyone knows the answer can they let me know, it's quite the mystery. **

**Anyways thank you for deciding to continue onto chapter 4 of this story, well unless you didn't feel like reading the first three chapters and just skipped to chapter 4. To that I must ask what in the world is wrong with you? Obviously the first three have important detailed content in them which should be read in order to understand what is going on, otherwise there'd be no explanations, structure, or dramatic build up for anything. The world would suffer in chaos, and who wants that? So please read the other chapters first. :) **

**Enough of my rambling. On with the fiction!**

**Disclaimer: I do not, will not, or could not possibly own Sherlock or BBC.**

Joseph Bailey's smile dropped when John Watson did not make a move. He still held the broom over his right shoulder, his stance seemed to increase in strength once he had assessed his "opponent's" physical characteristics. His grip on the wooden shaft tightened, his stare was so focused on Bailey that it was almost as if he wasn't blinking.

Bailey stared at John waiting, him to lower the cleaning implement, but nothing happened. It was becoming a tad unsettling for him, but only a little bit. He had been up against some of the top criminals in Western Europe, and if it hadn't had been for John's cold stare he would have passed it off as comical.

The shorter man barely reached his chin, and he was much older than Bailey. His gray woven sweater only made him look all the less intimidating. Had he never met the medical veteran before Bailey would have laughed, but he had so Bailey knew what the man with the broom could do if someone he cared about was threatened.

The two men stood still, neither moving nor taking their eyes off their staring opponent. The room was silent except for the few noises that were able to seep through the walls from the outer street. The tension of the room along mixed with the stillness made Bailey feel awkward, almost to the point of fidgeting. But the man stood still waiting for John to make his move.

John looked at the tall man, looking for any indicators that would present him as a threat. There was no visible weapon on him nor was he wearing the same clothing as the previous intruder. His eyes held the look that most soldiers would have, the ones who returned from war, the look that they've seen it all. The man's blue eyes were staring into his, but unlike John's he looked nervous almost.

John thought that perhaps the man was not an intruder, and he was just scaring him by waving a broomstick like a complete loon. Then he remembered that he was not alone in the house. Mrs. Hudson was alone in the kitchen with a crazed killer who could make up at any moment. There was no way in telling if the man was the unconscious ruffian's accomplice or not, but John sure wasn't goanna turn his back. For all he knew Bailey could be holding a knife in his pocket, waiting for John to turn his back and give him an opportunity. He heard Mrs. Hudson pull a chair out in the kitchen. He needed to get back to her. He needed to end this, and quickly.

Bailey wanted the gridlock to end as well. He took a loud, deep breath, which caused John to tense even more. Perhaps he didn't remember him. There was only one way to find out.

"Hi my name is Joseph Bailey," he held out his hand and took a few steps forward, but quickly stopped when John raised the broom higher. His hand returned to his side.

"Who are you," John asked warily. So he hadn't recognized Bailey. Bailey gave a sigh of relief which made John's eyebrows furrow in confusion."

"Do you think you could put the broom down?"

"You think you think you could tell me who you are, first?"

"I told you, I'm Joseph Bailey."

"Who is Joseph Bailey?"

"I am, weren't you listening," Bailey started to lose his nervous attitude and replaced it with a more annoyed one.

John stared at the man. His annoyance reminded him of Sherlock's common attitude towards the people of "average intelligence;" which was everyone according to Sherlock.

"Listen," Bailey drew John's mind back to the situation at hand. "I came to tell you tha-"

"Have we met before," John asked the other man before he could finish his sentence, his eyebrows knitted together in a confused- questioning line.

"No," Bailey lied straitlaced to the doctor.

"No need for him to know who I really am. Wouldn't want him to be getting angry now would we," Bailey thought to himself.

"You sure?" John asked the question again looking over ever inch of Bailey's face trying to see the familiarity in it, but he couldn't pinpoint a time or place when he had seen the man.

"I am quite positive," Bailey bluntly stated, looking towards the banister rather than John's face.

"He's lying," John thought to himself, "but why?"

John decided to brush the lie off and get done with this conversation so he could get back to Mrs. Hudson.

"I'm her-"

"Why are you here," he asked with a pointed look.

"Well if you would've let me finished my previous statements you might have known by now," Bailey responded irritation present in his voice.

"We I'm listening now aren't I," John retorted in the same tone.

"I am here too tell you-"

"John!" Mrs. Hudson yelled from the kitchen.

"Oh for the love of God," Bailey muttered under his breath.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter: 5

**Yay 2 whole followers****…Hi… Do di do di do di do… ON WITH THE SHOW… Book… story…****fanfiction…****whatever…**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or BBC. Actually I do not own any TV shows, companies, or anything of the sort.**

"John!" Mrs. Hudson yelled even louder. He peeked through the doorway that led to the kitchen, and saw the other intruder stirring on the ground.

"Oh, of course," John muttered sadistically. He quickly turned his eyes back on Bailey. He hadn't made a move expect turned his head to Mrs. Hudson's terrified shrieks. "Oi! You just stand right there, you here," John yelled towards Bailey when he moved towards the kitchen entrance. With an elevation of the broom, the twenty- year- old stopped in the middle of the room.

"Scared of a broom," Bailey factiously thought. His face redden slightly in annoyance. He hated being told what to do, especially by someone like John Watson. John held the broom a little longer, burning holes into Bailey's skull.

"John!" Mrs. Hudson screamed again. John turned his head to the kitchen the man's hands were now feeling the floor. He took one last look at Bailey, a look that said "I have a broom don't move." John darted into the kitchen.

"Stupid little man," Bailey huffed. Once John was completely out of view Bailey followed into the kitchen.

"He's waking up John," Mrs. Hudson hushed out a whisper.

"Really I hadn't noticed," John replied irritated by the situation. Mrs. Hudson in return gave him the look.

"Sorry, sorry," he muttered with a wave of his hand. "Please go in the other room."

"Don't order me around Mr. Watson. I'm not your housekeeper deary," she said already walking towards her room, glad to be anywhere else but the kitchen. John turned his attention back towards the waking man on the floor.

John bent down to get a better look. The blood had stopped oozing out of the head wound but a nasty gash was visible. Dried blood covered the back and shoulders of the leather jacket. The floor also took on a deep shade of red. The purple bandana, now around his neck, was filled with specks of ruby. His breath was study, but reeked of alcohol. A deep cough caused John to pull back from the stench.

"Putting your face right next to a killer's, you really are the smart one aren't you," Bailey sneered as he entered the room. John shot up, picking up the broom from the ground.

"I thought I told you to stay put," John vexed.

"Oh put the broom down, I'm not a bloody intruder!" Bailey had had enough of the scary broom.

"Oh like I'm just suppose to take your word for it," whispered harshly and as loud as he could, fearing the intruder would wake up sooner.

"The man's already waking up, there's no need to whisper," Bailey stated in a normal tone.

"Oh and I bet you'd just love that, you two could murder an old woman together," John angry whispered, keeping his soft tone as best as he could with the angry welding up inside him.

"I am not an intruder," Bailey stated plainly.

"Yeah and I'm suppose to believe every word that comes out of your mouth, right?"

"If I were an intruder, why would I have knocked on the door?" Bailey's eyes rolled as his irritation increased.

"Well, I, a deceiving one?" John felt like slapping himself in the face. He'd thought that some of Sherlock's "Scientific Detection" skills would have rubbed of on him. H could practically hear Sherlock saying, "The right questions, John. Ask the right questions!"

"You should hit again."

"What?" John was brought out of his stupidity and gave a questioning look towards Bailey.

"You should hit him again. You know the assassin whose about to wake up." Bailey rolled his eyes yet again at the short man's idiocy.

"I don't know he's lost a lot of blood."

"Your worried for the assassin's well being, how quaint," Bailey mused.

"How do you know he's an assassin anyways? You just got here," John's questioning eyes turned suspicious.

"His belt," Bailey responded with the same blank expression.

"Oh really? And what would his belt have to do with anything?"

"The knife strapped onto the belt for starters," Bailey smirked. John looked over and sure enough a black hunting knife was hooked on the black belt.

"And the mob tattoo on the nape of his neck." The black ink was visible through the brown hair.

"There's also the fact that he is hiding his face," Bailey said pointedly.

"Oh."

"Sherlock was right, I am an idiot," John mentally face- palmed his forehead.

"Now would be a good time," Bailey said. John saw the man's eyes beginning to open.

Bailey grabbed the broom from John's hands before any protest could be made. With a swish sound the intruder was back to his peaceful slumber yet again. Bailey handed the broom back to John.

"May I tell you what I came here for," he asked the dumbfounded Watson. John nodded. Bailey took a deep breath and continued.

"Sherlock," he began his eyes took on the nervous edge they had had when he had first walked through the door.

"What about Sherlock," John asked warily. Usually strangers called his former friend by his full name. Only those who knew him personally actually called him just by his first name. Bailey fumbled with his hands slightly.

"John, Sherlock's alive."

"No, he's not?"

"Yes he is," Bailey stated with a plain expression but his eyes still held the nervousness.

"No he's not!"

"John-"

"How do you even know my name?" John's voice grew in anger.

"John! He's alive Sherlock Holmes is alive!"

"No he's not! He jumped off a building, and spilled his brains on the cement! I should know I was there!" Tears began to form at the corners of his eyes. He blinked them back as much as he could but they still threatened to slip out.

"John, listen," Bailey said in a calmer voice.

"No! I will not listen! Get out of my house!" John yelled, his blood boiling, turning his face bright red.

"Sherlock is alive John."

"Who are you! What are you doing here! Who do you work for!" John felt his old paranoia passing over him.

"My name is Joseph Bailey, I am a detective, and I am here because Sherlock asked me to tell you he was still breathing."

"Well he should have come himself then! If Mr. Ego really is alive he should come and tell me himself! Tell me why he put his so called 'friends' through this!" A tear broke its his defense as he walked to look out the kitchen window, so Bailey couldn't see his face.

"It was too dangerous, John," Bailey said softly.

"That's a load of bull!" John turned around, all signs of tears disappearing. "Get out of my house before I call the police."

"I'm not leaving John."

"The heck you ain't!"

"No, I am not!"

"And what makes you think you can do as you please in my home?"

"Because you are going to need help in tracking the assassin's employer."

"I think I can manage that on my own and with the police," John's eyes narrowed.

"You forgot something important."

"Oh, and what could that possibly be," John asked with false fascination.

"I am a cop."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter: 6

**Okay it has been brought to my attention that brains were not shown when Sherlock jumped. Thank you to those who are observant, dedicated Sherlock fans who realized this, but I already knew this. It was just a way to convey John's anger through a common expression which John could be seen using, but thanks for your reviews and input.**

**So this is a really long chapter, but I'm assuming that if anyone reads fanfiction they like to read. So this should be fun for you.**

**Disclaimer: I am sad report that I do not own Sherlock or BBC. :'( **

"Get. Out. Now." The serious tone in John's voice was enough to make any average man quake in his trousers, but Bailey was no ordinary man. Though he was willing to admit the harsh look in John Watson's eyes worried him more than any cold- hard criminals. The brown eyes burned with rage, suspicion, and betrayal. This is what Bailey expected.

He walked over to the kitchen table and pulled out one of the chairs.

"Did you not hear me," John shouted. Bailey did not respond. He walked back to the sleeping man and positioned his legs on either side of the man's body so he could lift the assassin. John face was contorted with the anger he had been building up since his friend had died. The anger towards Moriarty, the anger towards those who believed the lies, but most importantly the anger towards Sherlock for jumping.

In his mind Bailey was a liar, someone who wanted to hurt John. How dare he say such lies! How dare he slander Sherlock, his best friend! How dare he come into his home and play such harsh tricks on him! He had no right!

"Get out!"

Bailey lifted the assassin up by the armpits, ignoring John's protests. He set the man on the wooden chair so he was slumped in on himself but still sitting up. He walked to the kitchen tops, and rummaged through the kitchen drawers until he found what he was looking for. He put the silver roll of duck tape on the table next to the chair.

"I don't care if you are a detective or not! This is my home and I want you to leave!" John's face was the color of watermelon.

"Technically," Bailey, standing behind the chair, started as he bit a long piece of tape off the roll, "This is Mrs. Hudson's. She just allows you to rent the upstairs flat out." He fastened the intruder's hands together behind the back of the chair.

"How do you know her name?" John's eyes squinted with more suspicion. He really is

quite paranoid, Sherlock hadn't exaggerated.

"Because I've met her before," Bailey softly told John, as though he was talking to a lost child, as he tapped the man's torso to the back of the chair.

"And where might that have occurred," John angrily sneered at the man's belittlement.

"That's not important." Bailey crouched down to tape the feet to the chair's legs.

"I think it is!" John was losing his patience.

"No it's really not. It really doesn't concern you, anyhow."

"Oh and how's that."

"Because it doesn't. There," Bailey let out a sigh as he stepped back to look at his handiwork.

The assassin had his wrists bound behind the chair, his ankles the same with the chair's legs. His mid- torso was thoroughly wrapped with the silver strips so he could not bend in anyway. On his mouth a single strip of tape served to block out any noise that might come out of the man's mouth. All of the tape lined up perfectly and several layers on each bound were made to keep the captive from breaking the tape. John looked over the work Bailey had done.

"If you are a policeman, how'd you learn to do that, hmm?" John looked as if he had caught Bailey with his hand in the biscuit jar.

"I do a lot of undercover work," Bailey responded nonchalantly, trying to reveal as little as possible.

"What sort of undercover work?"

"Mobs and such."

"Why would you pretend to be a criminal that is if you really are a detective?"

"I work in the trafficking of drugs and stolen goods," his nonchalant tone disappeared as he began to feel uncomfortable with telling John too much information. John only grunted in response walking over to the bound criminal. He had his fair deal with the drug cartel and stolen rare items, but that had been with Sherlock.

He faced the accused "assassin" then glanced over his shoulder towards Bailey, but quickly turned away when he noticed eyes on him as well. He didn't trust Bailey. The way he acted arrogant at one moment then nervous the next, he was hiding something which made him a liar. John would not listen to a single thing that came out of the stranger's mouth. How dare he lie to his face in his own home! Sherlock couldn't possibly be alive, he was dead, and John should know he saw it happen. He saw his best friend jump from the roof and plummet to the concrete. He saw the bloodied pavement and body. He was there when the body was lowered into the ground. He visited the black headstone with Mrs. Hudson. He knew it to be true: Sherlock was dead.

"I want you to leave," John stated bluntly over his shoulder.

"That's good to know, let me now if that happens for you," Bailey responded walking to the other side of the chair.

"Leave."

There was no response.

"Leave now."

Still no response.

"I mean it, get out!"

"And what if I stay?"

"Then I'll call the police to come drag your sorry a-"

John's comment was interrupted by small murmuring and groaning coming from the man tied to the chair. Bailey motioned John to shush, which he wasn't too happy to follow the order. All attention turned to the chair.

The assassin squirmed in his restraints, which were holding. His face scrunched in pain as he opened his eyelids slowly to look at the tiled floor.

"W-what-t h-hit m-me," he squeaked out, most likely to himself then anyone in particular.

"A plate and a broom," John stated. Bailey shot him a glare, motioning him to stay quiet. The man's head shot up once he realized there were others nearby. His face lost all color, he looked almost cadaverous. Bailey let out a sigh then leaned on his left hand on the table.

"What is your name?" He said it with a smile, not really friendly or welcoming but not sinister either. It was just a smile, almost as if someone had drawn it on with crayon. John wondered why Bailey was even bothering with the fake friendliness. He waited, but there was no response.

"What's your name!" John did not wear a smile, as he yelled down towards the man.

"John, please let me take care of this," Bailey waved his hand towards the doctor.

"Why should I? He attacked us not you?" John was beginning to sound like a small child to even himself. Bailey sent him another glare which shut his mouth. He folded his arms and looked out the window.

"What is your name?" Bailey repeated the question with the same facial expression.

_Silence._

"Who do you work for?"

_Silence._

"Why have you come here?"

_Silence._

" I see," Bailey muttered. He began to circle the chair, his smile intact. "The silent type aren't we, a little lost for words I see."

_Silence._

Bailey circled the chair until he came to the man's left side, and stopped. He looked towards John, giving him the same fake smile before turning the other way to pace in the other direction. John sent Bailey a look questioning what he was up to, but there was no response. Bailey lifted his foot up then- WHAM! In a blink of an eye Bailey's fist had come down and the captive was sporting a nice gash on his left cheek.

"So," Bailey began pacing in the other direction, still wearing the smile. "What about that name?"

The man looked to be in shock, and John wasn't too far off himself. He was about to protest, when Bailey sent him a warning glare. The assassin watched Bailey's every move as he continued to walk circles around him.

"Well?" Bailey asked, stopping in front of the man then continuing his pacing. There was no response, only the heavy gaze.

Bailey walked to the right side and stopped. He gave a hard, back- hand slap across the man's right brow, leaving a red mark that was sure to bruise later. The man's face looked strained with the pain rushing upon him. Bailey only continued to pace.

"Listen, I am not one to be fooled around with, you hear me? I would answer me."

The assassin looked like he was having an inner conflict with himself, wondering if he should risk another assault or give up the information. He looked up at Bailey his face a sad excuse for resilience. Bailey nodded and walked around until he was standing in front of the chair. He quickly raised his fist to strike the man again.

"Wait!" The desperate plead from the man stopped the fist in mid-air. Bailey lowered the fist, his smile disappearing.

"M-my n-name's Paul. M-my name's Paul Kin," he stammered out, fear filled his eyes. Bailey grabbed the two armrests of the chair, scaring the man even more.

"Why have you come here," he shouted into his face.

"I- I was s-suppose to t-take care o-of the old broad," he looked even paler. John's teeth clenched when he heard that Paul had actually shown up to murder his dear friend.

"Who is your employer," John butted in. The man looked at John then Bailey then back at John. He opened his mouth then quickly closed it. Bailey raised his fist again, but was interrupted by a voice from the other room.

"John," Mrs. Hudson's voice rang into the kitchen. John looked at Bailey and Paul then walked to the doorway. Mrs. Hudson met him at the entrance of the next room.

"What in the world is going on out there? It sounds as though someone is beating a dog," she questioned him.

"Don't worry about it Mrs. Hudson, everything's fine. John tried to put out her worries. She was about to protest when Bailey walked into the room.

"Hey you get out of here," John shouted towards him. He ignored the command.

Mrs. Hudson stared, questioningly, up at Bailey, like she knew him, but couldn't quite place where it was from. She shook her head and turned her attention back towards John, but his was on Bailey.

"Are you listening to me?" He stepped in front of Mrs. Hudson, cutting off Bailey's view of her.

"Have you ever met someone by the name of Paul Kin?" He craned his neck around John to look at her, despite John's actions. The question was meant towards Mrs. Hudson, not John. She just shook her head.

"I see," he murmured to himself. "Well that must mean he is a hit man. We have to find out who he's working for."

"We don't have to do anything. I have to find out, and you will be leaving," John interjected.

"Be reasonable John," Bailey sneered.

"I be reasonable?! You, Sir, should be reasonable! Mr. Think I'll Walk Into Someone Else's Home And Boss Strangers Around With My Big Ego! Honestly you expect me to just go with whatever comes out of your mouth as the truth for all I know you could be Moriarty's ex- partner!" John shouted exasperatedly. His jaw snapped shut when he realized he had mentioned Moriarty's name. He hadn't wanted to bring up the topic to a stranger and likely enemy.

"I assure you I am not Moriarty's partner, John, I am the farthest thing from it." Bailey responded with such seriousness in his voice John's eyes widened.

"You know Moriarty?"

"Yes."

"The Moriarty?"

"Yes, the arch nemesis of Sherlock Holmes, I know of him."

John darted over to the laptop charging on the end table in the right corner of the room. He turned it on and logged in, his fingers a blur on the keyboard. He stopped and turned to face Bailey once he had pulled up what he wanted. On the screen was the picture of a skinny man with buzz- cut black hair, a devious smile plastered on his face.

"This man, you know this man?" John waited for Bailey's response, which he provided with a nod.

"Why do you have his picture on your computer John?" Two pairs of eyes fell on Mrs. Hudson.

"Who Moriarty?" John asked.

"No the graves keeper?"

"What graves keeper?!" John and Bailey asked at the same time.

"The one from the cemetery, where Sherlock's buried," Mrs. Hudson told them warily.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter: 7

**Hi there thank you for reading till this point, to chapter 7 or chapter 6 part 2 *cough* *cough* which ever you prefer.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or BBC, though I do have the series along with various other BBC shows on DVD…it's not the same thing. :/**

"_The one from the cemetery, where Sherlock's buried," Mrs. Hudson told them warily. _

Bailey passed a questioning look towards John, but he did not receive it. John's eyes were focused on Mrs. Hudson. His face was edged, cautious. His jaw was clamped shut, his gaze intensely focused on the woman, confusion etched on her face.

"What is it John?" Her eyes were filled with the discord of unknowing. His in return was filled with a paranoia and self- hatred that made his eyes glow red. He glanced over at Bailey, the intensity the same, then back at Mrs. Hudson. He took in a deep sigh and forced his shoulder's to relax and his eyebrows to lower.

"Mrs. Hudson are you sure this was the man you saw at the cemetery?" His eyebrows rose back up, wrinkling his forehead, as he spoke. His shoulders remained slack yet the eyes were still glistening with the pervious glare. She looked frightened by his serious domineer.

"John, I-" She began.

"Mrs. Hudson please we must know," Bailey stated in an informing, quickening tone. John glared at him once more.

"What's going-"

"Mrs. Hudson please," Bailey interrupted again, this time John's stare reached his voice.

"Don't interrupt her," John's voice held venom.

"We have to know what she saw, at least what she thinks she saw." Bailey sent a questioning glance towards Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh and now she's psychotic? Making up stories about graves keepers who look like criminal masterminds! Who in God's name do you think you are, waltzing in here, questioning a defenseless woman. Bad enough your buddy out there nearly put her in shock, no you have to walk in and tell her she's delusional as well! Well I won't have it!" John's voice filled the room and the rest of the building, the anger fueling the loudness.

"John, for the last time I. Am. Not. His. Associate. I'm a detective." Bailey stated in a calm voice, barely moved by the loud shoutings of a deranged man.

"I don't care if you're Prince Edward, you have no right to be here let alone treat Mrs. Hudson as if she were crazy!" John pointed his index finger accusingly at Bailey's chest. Bailey looked down at the finger and into John's cold- hearted stare.

"My apologies Mrs. Hudson," He said looking her in the eyes, yet the confusion in them stayed. John withdrew his finger and nodded hesitantly.

"Really John, tell me what is going on?" Desperation lingered in her voice, she was scared and confused.

John walked up to her and grasped her shaking hands in his own larger palms. She looked up at him tears welding up in the corners of her eyes. His face relaxed and forced a smile, but it did not reach his eyes. He gently placed a hand on her upper back and led her to one of the wooden chairs in the center of the room. He helped her sit then pulled another chair so it was directly in front of her's. He loosely placed her fingers in his grip and looked at her with sensitive eyes.

"Mrs. Hudson please, we need you to remember." He begged calmly to his friend. His eyes glistened with undoubtable kindness. She nodded her head, her eyes focused and opened towards John.

"Was the man you save at the cemetery the man on the computer screen," he asked her. She looked over his shoulder at the computer screen over his shoulder. She looked back at John.

"Yes John I am sure," she stated confidently.

"You're absolutely certain?"

"John what's this about?" The confusion building up with the tears.

"Just answer the question please," Bailey stated bluntly. John snapped his head around, the anger returning to his face. Just as quickly though it vanished, replaced with the soft look, and turned back to Mrs. Hudson.

"Please Mrs. Hudson, it's very important," John pleaded. She nodded her head.

"We were at the cemetery," she began and John nodded in acknowledgement. A sudden crash stopped all discussion. Bailey and John shared a look.

"The assassin," Bailey told John. "How could we have forgotten!"

"How could we have forgotten? How could you forget? Are you not a big detective, a master of crime control?" John grumbled loudly. Bailey rolled his eyes as he ran into the next room, John in tow.

They were met with the assassin, Paul Kin, still bound by the duck tape, only the chair was now on the floor. Undoubtedly he had tried to escape by wiggling loose from his restraints only to result in an agonizing meeting with the cold floor. He was currently wriggling to get loose from his uncomfortable predicament. His eyes widen when his captors walked in.

"We are lucky he did not escape," Bailey said with relieve. John grunted in disapproval which was ignored.

"Do you have anywhere where we could put him?"

"What?" John looked at Bailey with a confusion similar to Mrs. Hudson's.

"You don't want the assassin to escape do you?"

"No."

"Then do you have a place, a room, somewhere where we could put him in which he can't get out?"

John crossed his arms and stared at the floor. Bailey was about to ask again when he John retreated from his mind. He walked past Bailey into the other room. He returned with Mrs. Hudson who gasped when she saw the state of the prisoner. Before she could protest he guided her into the hall, and motioned for Bailey to follow.

"Where are you going," Bailey asked curiously. John shot him another look over his shoulder, and continued to move through the house. He stopped at a dark brown door below the staircase.

"Mrs. Hudson can we have your keys please?" John asked softly. She nodded and warirly walked into the room at the end of the hall, looking over her shoulders at the two men.

She returned, golden keys jingling in her small, white hands. She handed them to John who fumbled around until he found the right one. He shifted the knob until the door opened.

"John there's awful black mold down there," Mrs. Hudson warned. John smiled at the woman's antics, and headed down the stairs with Bailey following close behind.

"This work?" John asked when the two entered the bare concrete room.

"This will work," Bailey responded.

The two walked back up the stairs, picked up both ends of the chair, by the man's feet and head, and carried him down the stairs to the unused and unwanted flat. The entire time Mrs. Hudson watched them intently.

"Place him down over here," John motioned with a nod of his head. Bailey backed into the corner where he had been told to go. He was carrying the man's feet when suddenly the smooth wood fell from his hands.

"Watch it," John hissed, setting the man in an upright position so he was facing the wall.

"We wouldn't want to hurt your friend now would we," John sarcastically put. Bailey was beginning to grow annoyed.

"For the last time, I am a detective!" Bailey shouted annoyed once the two reached the top of the stairs.

"Pfft. And do you have any proof of this, Detective Bailey?" John spat, as he locked the dark door.

"I'm not active at the moment," Bailey muttered sadly.

"What? You get kicked off for barging into other homes?"

"We need to go finish our discussion with Mrs. Hudson," Bailey told John without commenting on his insult.

They found Mrs. Hudson sitting in the room, in the same wooden chair as before. She looked up and let out a slow breath, then taking in another deep one.

"Mrs. Hudson can we continue," Bailey asked, John taking his previous seat.

"We were at the cemetery," she began once again, the two men nodded.

"We were at the cemetery, seeing Sherlock." Her voice cracked when she mentioned his name.

"You John," she gave him a pointed look. He nodded for her to continue.

"You were still talking to him, and I was heading back to the car, w-when- when a hand reached out and pulled me behind me a tall tombstone. It was the graves keeper at least that's what he looked like by his uniform. He was the man on the screen, on your computer screen." She stopped and looked at John. He nodded.

"What did he say to you?" he asked.

"He only said one thing. He pulled me behind the tombstone and told me 'hand.' I do not know what he meant though." She looked at the two men with confusion.

"Hand? That's all he said? Are you sure?" Bailey asked with the same confusion present in his tone.

"Yes I am certain. He said 'hand,' smiled, and walked away. What does it mean?"

"I don't know Mrs. Hudson," John admitted looking over his shoulder at Bailey then back at his friend. "I don't know."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter: 8

**Hello two followers :) How have you two been? Good, that's good. I hope you two are enjoying the story so far. Sorry if the characters seem out of character this is my first fanfiction.**

**Disclaimer: Wait if I owned Sherlock and/or BBC, why would I have said that I didn't for the past seven chapters? I don't own Sherlock or BBC, I'm just saying I think that is well known if you've read up to this point.**

Joseph Bailey paced the floor of the small living room as the two friends watched him intently, waiting for him to do or say something. The two had done it so much when Sherlock was alive. Sit and wait for the man to come up with a brilliant answer to the world's mysteries. The difference was Bailey wasn't Sherlock Holmes.

"Hand. Hand. Hand. Hand. " He repeated the word quietly under his breath as he moved from one side of the room to the other. Bailey made his twentieth lap around the condensed area, irritating John more. Bailey might not be Sherlock, but he sure was as annoying.

"If he says it one more time, I swear," John thought to himself.

"Hand," Bailey muttered again.

"Yes we know 'hand'! For god sakes sit down! You aren't helping anyone with your constant pacing!" John shouted then let out a long sigh. "What are we going to do?"

"Oh is it we now? What happened to me being in league with the assassin?" Bailey's eyebrow rose. John was not amused by the younger man's sarcasm. Bailey's shoulders slumped; he had given up trying to deceiver Moriarty's games. That was a job for Sherlock. He walked over to the couch on the right side of the rectangular room. The sun peered through the drape-less window, lighting Bailey's dark curls.

"I don't trust you." John stated bluntly and Bailey's eyebrows rose further. John let out another exasperated sigh.

"But you claim that Sherlock is still alive, and if what Mrs. Hudson thought she saw is true then I have to be open to the possibility that he is still out there. And since you seem to know where he is hiding it looks like we will have to work together," John told the other man in a calm, reasonable voice. The two shook hands, but neither knew each other's true thoughts.

"Lead me to Moriarty is what you'll really be doing, and I'll be ready. You won't know what hit you 'Detective' Bailey," John thought sinisterly to himself. There was no possible way Sherlock was alive. He was dead, and the best thing John could do is expose his killer as a real killer, not an actor.

"He thinks I will lead him to Moriarty, well isn't he in for a shock," Bailey thought. Still the two shook hands in an unreliable, untruthful agreement. One thinking he was tricking the other, and the other knowing he wouldn't. Their fake smiles dissipated when they released their grips.

"Now what are we going to do?" John asked after a moment of silence.

"Well, I know what I am going to do," Mrs. Hudson announced breaking the silence more than John did. The two men looked at the older woman with raised brows.

"I'm going to make a pot of tea, would you boys like some?" She was already out the door.

"Yes thank you," Bailey said.

"Yes please," John told her, then turned his attention back to Bailey, waiting for him to respond to his previous question.

Bailey glanced out a near window, it was still sunny later in the day, but still sunny. A beautiful sunny day that shone even when death and destruction reigned supreme. Where happy endings never seemed to happen the sun shone brighter than in those places where they did. Perhaps a way to make the pain and hate in the world worse, was to have the bright cheerful sun reminding you that some where else the world was a happy, safe place full of laughter and love. He turned his attention back towards John.

"Now, we go get Sherlock and end this," Bailey stated confidently.

**Sorry this chapter is so short it's more of a transition into the next one.**


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter: 9

**Woo! Three whole followers! I'M FAMOUS! **

**I'm a very socially awkward person if anyone couldn't have guessed.**

**Okay I know this might be long but I wanted to really show you how John is taking Bailey's appearance. Next chapter I promise will be long and will be more of a plot mover.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or BBC, but if they are willing to sell…oh wait that would require money… aww.**

"Well where is he?" John asked. He was becoming annoyed by Bailey's ignorance. For the past hour the man sat on the sofa, Mrs. Hudson's teacup in hand, typing away on John's laptop. Bailey's eyes shifted from the teacup, beyond the computer screen, and up at John. He stared at the doctor for a moment, his darkened stare told John to cease with the questions. Then he sat the cup on the saucer located on the end table, and went back to typing away on the portable computer.

John let out a loud, irritated sigh, crossed his arms over his chest, and looked out the living room window. He grew tired of being left out in the dark. He was sure Bailey was working for Moriarty, he just knew it. He looked like he was a criminal, maybe not a criminal mastermind such as his boss, but a sly one at that. His boss… Moriarty… the one who had destroyed his best friend. The one who had, as the murder had put it, burned the heart out of Sherlock. His eyes grew soft as he stared out the window.

He remembered that day. That horrid day. He had seen death in the war, he had been a doctor. It was only expected to see the brutal part of death, the type that befallen on the young souls who severed their country. He had seen death, but that day was different.

To see his best friend die broken, to hear the desperate hurt in his voice through the phone receiver, it broke John's heart. He might not have romantically loved the man, despite what the news reporters had written, but he did love him like a friend. He was his friend, his best friend, and Moriarty, the monster, had taken him. So his stare turned hard when he looked back at the clicking fingers' master.

He hated Moriarty. He hated Sherlock for leaving, for giving in to the monster, but most of all he hated himself for letting it happen. He should have stayed with Sherlock, he should have been on that roof with him, and he should have jumped instead of him. If he had just pushed him into going to the hospital to see the "shot" Mrs. Hudson, perhaps he would be here telling John how much of an idiot was. He glared at the top of Bailey's head, the rest of his face covered by the computer's back.

He had let Sherlock die. He had let Moriarty escape punishment. Perhaps Moriarty wasn't back. For all they knew it had been part of Moriarty's elaborate "game" that was just being continued by the twisted fools that followed him. Yes that would make sense. The Moriarty look-a-like at the graveyard, Bailey's sudden appearance with news of Sherlock's miraculous survival, they were all a stage in the wicked game, a game which he would win. He had let Sherlock down, but this time he wouldn't. This time the monster would burn, weather that monster be Moriarty, or Bailey.

But first he needed to gather more information. He needed to know what Bailey was up to. He needed Bailey to take him to see "Sherlock" so he could pull the wool over his eyes before Bailey did it to him.

"Have you found Sherlock's location," John asked, annoyed with the waiting game. Bailey sighed at his colleague's impatience.

"I am not looking for his location, John. For the last time I am waiting for a conformation."

"Oh that's right, you're waiting for Sherlock to give you the thumbs up. Well, you could tell him, that is if he really is alive, which I hardly believe, that he better just bring his breathing backside right here. Cause I'm sure not moving to go see him, after he lied to me," John stated. Bailey sighed, again. He knew this would be the doctor's reaction.

"It was not his fault, John."

"You think I don't know that." John smirked wickedly to the table then looked back at Bailey, the unhappy grin wiped away. "No it wasn't his fault. It was Moriarty's. That piece of work took Sherlock and put him through heck. Put us through heck. It wasn't Sherlock's fault that he died. But if what you say is true, if Sherlock is in fact alive, then he better have a darn good excuse as to why he never told me earlier."

"John," Bailey let the argument die as another message popped on the screen. He had to set up a security net so the message would not be traced. It was a good thing he was good with computers. Just then the message he had been waiting for appeared on the screen. He read the words carefully then deleted the computer's history, wiping away the security net and the messages in an instant.

"John," Bailey called over the top of the computer. The other man looked up from his crossed arms. This was not going to be a relaxing ordeal for anyone. "He has asked that I take you to him."

"Sherlock," John questioned.

"Yes."

"And where is he?"

"You will see John. Too many prying ears around here," Bailey motioned towards the other flat's door. John almost laughed. Wouldn't want the lying criminal let the assassin know anything.

"Of course," John responded with a roll of his eyes. Bailey closed the laptop then reached for the coat draped on the back of his chair.

"Come on John," he motioned towards the door as he put the blue garment on. John huffed as he stood up and picked up his own brown jacket.

"Where are you boys going," Mrs. Hudson asked as they stepped into the hallway. Bailey sent John a questioning look, but he paid no attention. Instead he turned around slowly and smiled at Mrs. Hudson.

"We need to go talk to the police about the man who broke in, there's no need to worry Mrs. H," John lied to the elderly woman. He hated to do so, but it was for her own protection. If he truly was walking into a trap then there was no reason for her to as well. He began to walk out the door behind Bailey, who was already waiting for him on the sidewalk outside, but turned around when he remembered something.

"If the man in the old flat tries to come upstairs call Lestrade," he instructed. Mrs. Hudson nodded as John closed the front door, and the two men were gone.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter: 10

**Well I feel very ashamed of myself. It has been months since I've updated this. I doubt anyone is reading it except for PrincessPo. But if by some chance someone does see this, you guys should check out this awesome story, "The Anniversary" written by master 'sassin. It's their first one and just a downright awesome Teen Titans one-shot, so please show them some love. **

**(And if master 'sassin sees this...well, you never said I couldn't brag about your stuff)**

**Oh also for the record, I know how Sherlock survived the jump.**

**He's a 300 year old superhuman, duh.**

**I just couldn't resist.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or BBC. **

**Well I will just continue on with where it left off.**

_Last time on How He Lives: John and Bailey were on their way to meet Sherlock._

John looked around at the familiar streets. If Sherlock was this close to home why didn't he just come see him himself? Why the secrecy?

_That's because this isn't Sherlock you're meeting_. A strict voice in his head reminded him.

"Where are we going?" John asked Bailey, once more. Bailey looked over his shoulder at the shorter man then forward once more.

"We are almost there," was his reply as they rounded the corner.

_Pfft. That's what he said a block ago. _John thought grumpily.

He didn't like the waiting. If this was a trap, and he was positive it was, he wanted it to end, and end soon. This walking was killing his feet.

_But it'll be worth it to see Sherlock. _A happy thought passed by his mind.

_But you aren't going to see Sherlock. Sherlock is dead._ The strict voice rang.

The latter was correct. No matter how much he wished it, Sherlock was dead. He was never going to see his show-off of a best friend again, and strangely a small part of him took pride in this knowledge. For it meant that Sherlock was truly gone. There had been no lies between the two friends. No secrets. No betrayal. It meant that Sherlock had faith in John and had been his friend till the end.

Oh how wrong he was.

"Just another block," Bailey said raggedly throwing John out of his thoughts. John saw a glimpse of the other's face. That soldier's look once again fell over his face, making the twenty year old look older than he really was. What could have given him that look? He looks far too young to have been to war and back again to start a career as a detective. Then again he looked far too young to be a detective at all.

"How old are you?" John asked.

"Twenty," Bailey responded nonchalantly, keeping his pace. John nodded.

"How'd you get to be a big shot detective at twenty?" John asked incredulously.

Bailey stopped walking and turned to face him over his shoulder.

"I have my ways," Bailey responded with a tone that told John to drop the subject, and then continued walking. John rolled his eyes, but followed him.

At the end of the block, a rusty warehouse that looked to have been abandoned for as long as Bailey had been alive stood. The two men stopped.

"Are you trying to tell me Sherlock as been hiding out here?" John asked with an unbelieving eyebrow raise.

"Bailey didn't respond. He only opened the door and walked into the dim building. John, reluctantly followed, griping the handle of the weapon he had so well hidden in his pocket.

The building was basically one large room where, John presumed, the actual factory work had been done. It would have been completely dark if not for the upper windows that resided just below the twenty foot ceiling and allowed the natural sunlight to stream through the broken, brown windows. Tables and chairs littered the open area, but nothing else, other than papers and boxes, could be seen.

There were a few doors sparsely scattered around the room, but John didn't care where they led. His mind jumped from looking for the people who were going to ambush him, to a door opening at the top of a small platform in the corner of the room. From that door a man slowly descended the steps and entered onto the floor.

John's eyes went wide and froze there. His hand fell from his pocket to his side in an instant. All thoughts, all voices drained from his head. He couldn't move. His mouth hung slack with every foot that lowered onto the next step. All he could do is stare at the man in the white blazer, carrying a jar full of what seemed to be eyeballs, as he approached the two visitors.

"Ah, Bailey," the man began as he descended off the last step and approached them. He did not look up from the jar as he spoke. Something peculiar about the eyes must haven been intriguing him, but whatever it was a mystery. "I trust you are prepared to bring-"

The man stopped dead in his tracks when he spotted Bailey's companion. It seemed as though his face went just as blank as John's. The look of any emotion escaped his pale features when he noticed the short doctor staring wide-eyed at the ghost of what he should be. The jar crashed onto the concrete at their feet, but no one even noticed. Even Bailey looked withdrawn when he realized what he had done by bringing John in.

"John," Sherlock whispered taken aback.

"I need a chair," John said promptly before crashing, inelegantly onto a box, his facial features never faltering.

"John I can explain," Sherlock stated, but John was already lost in a single thought.

_Sherlock is alive._

_Sherlock's not dead._

_That complete idiot!_

**I think this story will be wrapping up soon so yeah, maybe another three chapters at most. Thanks if you actually read it :)**


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